Then there is the matter of you. The dictator you, that ruins mornings. Mournings. I have digital frames memorized on behalf of your infantile gloating, your devilish grin. I beat myself on bad days for losing your interest. I beat myself on worse days for repeating any of it. The torturous part is that I feel I am running a marathon, in competition with you and another, starry broad. I’ve lost time by withering myself, scorching my walls with the memories of your pinning truth, and my nothingness. I cannot live in competition with you any longer. I mean, to you – I’m utterly obsolete, invisible. Lost in the shadow of another, I’ve already died. We, have died. How long will it be until I know this?


A poem about waking up from a good dream.

So I had a dream about you last night
and, fuck
even now
as I write this
my throat is aching
urging for content
and recoiling from the bitter mirage
that bloomed
without mine willing it so
beneath a Christmas tree canopy
of lights and shadow play,
I sat
this is a dream world revised now,
So bare with me
I looked down and saw you there,
the face that haunts
and was so obviously you
olympic shock, and elation brimming
both of us conjoined
in the stare that lasted lifetimes,
our mutual disbelief
muffled the scene
as I scaled down the holiday exhibition,
you met me
held me, pressed me, hungry
so now the fantasy
of lust set alight
gnashes at the pertinent
the familiar
The change of framing
from that world to this
is viceral
and the dawn becomes
a scientist
an illusionist
and yet , there had been a kiss
then comfort
in knowing that things had changed
after the flood
and exact colours seized
so true to life
before my eyes opened
to a plane of black
and the liquid longing expelled
I am here
and I have awoken
to love lost.